


Like Nothing Else

by queeniegalore



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queeniegalore/pseuds/queeniegalore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a love story if you read between the lines, but it’s not Ray’s job to spell it out to Brad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Nothing Else

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Derry (derryderrydown)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/gifts).



> Written for derryderrydown for the we_pimpin Boys of Summer fic exchange over at LJ. <3

“Are we doing this?”  
  
Ray’s lips are wet, he can’t stop licking them. Out of nerves, out of the way Brad watches.  
  
Brad’s been watching for weeks.  
  
“Doing what?” Brad asks, indifferent. Like he doesn’t care, like maybe Ray’s talking about catching a movie, going out for a drink. Ray’s twenty two and he doesn’t know how to pretend like that, doesn’t even want to try. He takes a step forward.  
  
“You know what I’m talking about, don’t be an obtuse motherfucker,” he says, and his voice is way tougher than he feels. He’s got a new tattoo, and it itches as it heals on the inside of his bicep. He concentrates on that so he can stop concentrating on how cold Brad’s eyes can look sometimes. He doesn’t think he’s wrong about this. He doesn’t _think._  
  
Brad’s watching him. His gaze flicks between Ray’s mouth - Ray knows what it is with his mouth - and his eyes. He’d look unsure, if he looked anything.   
  
Ray’s the one who has to do it, then. It’s always gotta be Ray.  
  
He takes another step forward. He can feel the heat coming off the Iceman, if Brad took in one really deep breath his chest would expand just enough to touch Ray’s chest. They’re both very still, though, eyes locked.  
  
“What are you -”  
  
 _No_. Ray’s not gonna let him.  
  
He has to get up on his toes to kiss Brad, so he grabs his shoulders for balance and does it. They’re touching _now,_ their chests, hands, mouths. Brad doesn’t even pretend anymore that he doesn’t want to, it’s useless, it's probably been useless for weeks. Brad wants Ray. For some fucking stupid reason, he does.   
  
Ray wants to be wanted by Brad.  
  
He’s young and he has a fresh tattoo. They just got back from Afghanistan, Rome, Australia, Ray lost his virginity to a sweet girl who’s already become a myth. They drink together when they shouldn’t and fight together and sometimes just exist in the same place.  
  
And Ray’s in love, _so_ in love, and it’d be the dumbest thing in the world except for how Brad wants him. Wants _this,_ wants _them_ , whatever - whatever that means. Ray will take it.  
  
The kiss is amazing, it’s fucking steller. Ray has to hold on so he doesn’t tip over, until Brad’s hands go to his waist, huge and firm, and then he can let go, a little. Run his fingers over Brad’s cheeks, touch the back of his neck, tug at the collar of his tee-shirt. It’s perfect and stupid and stopping just isn’t on his agenda for the foreseeable future, and that’s great, because it looks like Brad’s on the same page.  
  
Like always.  
  
~  
  
It’s not like Brad wasn’t going to be in charge.  
  
It’s late afternoon and the sunlight is slanting through the blinds in Brad’s room, soaking the bed. Ray’s not exactly, _technically,_ a virgin, but he might as well be. When it comes to this, he’s a virgin. And maybe when it comes to Ray, Brad is too. He’s as inexperienced with Ray as Ray is with everything. The thought kind of comforts him, a little.  
  
But still, Brad’s in charge, and that makes sense. If there’s a universe out there, somewhere, where Brad doesn’t basically completely own Ray’s world. than he doesn’t want to fucking know about it.  
  
“Are you okay?” Brad’s voice is gentle, like Ray’s going to run off in terror or something. Ray rolls his eyes. He’s leaning back against Brad’s pillows with his shirt off and his jeans undone. There’s been enough time between this starting and them getting here that his tattoo is mostly healed, still just a little raised not so itchy. He misses the distraction.  
  
“Fuck you, do I look okay? Get over here, stop staring at me like I’m a porno.”  
  
His mouth feels swollen, because Brad had kissed him for about three hours on the couch before catching his wrist and drawing him in here. Brad is not actually that much older than him, but he’s been acting like Ray’s a teenage girl on prom night. Not that Ray would know much about that. He didn’t go to prom.  
  
He distracts himself with stupid shit to avoid thinking about how much he likes Brad taking care of him.  
  
Brad gets on the bed, one knee planted between Ray’s legs. He likes looking, he likes running his hands gently over Ray’s skin. Sometimes he likes to take Ray’s wrists tight in his hands and squeeze, like he’s testing the waters. Ray can’t - he can’t say it, but he moans when Brad does shit like that, tries to let him know how into it he’d be.  
  
But they haven’t gotten that far, yet. They’re only just getting _this_ far.  
  
Brad reaches up to close the blinds, and the room goes dim, still just a little golden around the edges. Brad’s shirt is off, too, and his skin is like something someone painted, or sculpted. Ray wants to touch it, so he does, flattening his palm over Brad’s abs. Brad tenses, and Ray grins.  
  
“Ever fucked a virgin before?” he asks. Brad frowns.  
  
“You’re not a virgin,” he says, and drops down, one hand on the pillow next to Ray’s head. Ray turns to kiss his thumb. It’s stupid, but so’s everything.  
  
“I may as well be,” he says. “Brad, Brad, come on. I’m not gonna break.”  
  
“You might,” Brad says darkly, but then he’s leaning in close and his mouth is on Ray’s and _yeah,_ Ray could get used to this.   
  
The kissing is just a prelude this time. It’s not long before Brad’s fumbling at Ray’s jeans, trying to push them down his thighs as Ray kicks his legs helpfully, getting them tangled up. Brad laughs into Ray’s mouth. “You’re so bad at this,” he says, and it’s fond and sweet. Ray likes it when Brad insults him. It means he cares.  
  
“Teach me, Sarge,” he says back breathlessly, hamming it up a little. Brad rolls his eyes and sits back up, yanking Ray’s jeans off, and then his boxers and suddenly Ray’s more exposed than he’s ever been. Shit.  
  
But Brad’s eyes aren’t cold, not today. When he sweeps his gaze up and down Ray’s body it’s like being touched by fire.  
  
“I’m gonna,” Brad says, and then he’s standing up to drop his own pants, kicking them into the corner of the room. He pulls something out of his bedside table - lube, Ray realizes with faint distaste, and a little strip of condoms - and then he’s back on the bed again. His mouth covers Ray’s but it’s not really a kiss. “I’m gonna,” he says again.  
  
“So do it,” Ray replies, and pumps his hips up. He’s so hard, fuck, so fucking hard. Brad is too, and it’s like they’re still in a holding pattern. Ray is all for foreplay, but seriously, he wants to get this done.  
  
“Fuck me.”  
  
Brad groans.  
  
It’s fingers first, obviously. Ray stares at the ceiling until Brad slaps his cheek very gently with his free hand and says his name. And then Ray stares at Brad’s face, biting his lip and watching the way Brad’s watching his own fingers. It feels good, especially when Brad lets Ray start stroking his cock. “Don’t come,” is all he says, but Ray isn’t that dumb. He’s gonna come when Brad fucks him. That’s what he wants.  
  
Two fingers, three. It hurts a bit, but not as much as he was expecting. Mostly it’s just a stretch, a feeling of being full. He hasn’t actually done this to himself, not like this. Brad had been surprised when Ray told him that, and that just made Ray think of _Brad_ doing it to himself. He was gonna - one day he’d do it to Brad. But not today, not today.  
  
He whines when Brad pulls out, and Brad grins at him. His cheeks are flushed, he’s so fucking blond that everything shows. His lips have gone red, his cock is red too, and Ray realises that that’s gonna be inside him.  
  
Fucking _insane._  
  
“Okay,” he says uncertainly, as Brad pushes his legs apart, bends his knees. He’d had an image in his head of him being on his hands and knees, that seemed - wasn’t that how it went? But he liked this, liked being able to look at Brad, and Brad wasn’t rolling him over, so. So good.  
  
“Okay,” Brad echoes, firmly. “Fuck, Ray, how do you look this good, how are you -” He breaks off and pushes the very tip of his cock against Ray’s ass. Ray draws in a sharp breath, hands flying to grip Brad’s biceps, squeezing.  
  
“Yeah,” he breathes, because fuck, okay, this feels good. This is good.  
  
Brad eases in with short, gentle thrusts. Ray’s pretty sure he’s going to go out of his mind. His cock is still hard and he’s dimly grateful - he’d read that that wasn’t always the case - and he wants to jerk off, wants to get himself off with Brad inside him. Was that, was that what he was supposed to do? He doesn’t even know.  
  
“Like it?” Brad says, his voice tight, controlled. Ray guesses that he’s nervous too, maybe, and he nods, squeezing harder.   
  
“Fuck yeah,” he says, and then adds with a crazy spike of bravado. “Come on, fuck me, fuck me.”  
  
Brad drops his head back, and does.  
  
It doesn’t take long.  
  
Ray gives up and grabs his cock, liking the way Brad opens his eyes to watch. He jerks off while Brad moves inside him, and it feels so good, so amazing. He doesn’t think he could come just from Brad fucking him - well, maybe, but they’d need to work up to it - but this is perfect. Brad’s so big, surrounding him, stretching him, overtaking him. There is no way it can last, no way he can draw this out. He’s gonna come, and it’s gonna be - gonna be -oh, fuck -   
  
“Let me hear you, Ray,” Brad grits out, fucking into him hard, almost glaring down at his face. “Come on, you never shut up, come on.”  
  
“I’m gonna come, Brad, fuck me, fuck, feels so good. Oh, fuck you you’re gonna make me come...” Ray doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s coming, spurting all over his stomach and chest, and he can feel the way his ass clenches around Brad’s cock. “Can you feel that, Brad, feel me come, you did this, fuck, _fuck._ ”  
  
“Oh shit yeah, Ray,” Brad whispers, and then he’s gone, and that’s the best bit. It’s the first time Ray’s made someone else come, and maybe that’s what being a virgin really is, maybe that’s the way to look at it. Because he’s watching Brad’s orgasm take him over and fuck him up, and it’s the greatest moment of his life.  
  
“Brad,” he says, kind of in wonder. He’s twenty two and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Brad fucking Colbert is coming in his ass.  
  
He’s never - shit, _fuck_ , he hates himself for it, but there it is. He’s never been happier in his life.  
  
~  
  
It lasts maybe months.  
  
They’re not, they’re not a _couple_. But Brad’s happiest when they’re together, and so is Ray. They fight like crazy people, most of the time, invent elaborate strings of insults to loop around each other, come up with stupid ways to say ‘hey, I like you,’ ‘hey, I need you.’ In Ray’s case it’s always ‘hey, I love you,’ but that’s okay, that’s his secret. He doesn’t think Brad loves him, but Brad likes him, and wants him, and that’s awesome.  
  
Besides, they’re Recon Marines. They’re fucking hardcore, and also, Ray’s just a kid, really. He’s a kid in love, a kid going off to war, but he’s a kid and he’s ready to take each day as it comes.  
  
And it’s not like it’s perfect. It’s not like it’s super easy to be in love with Brad Colbert all the time. It’s not like that at all.  
  
They have to be careful, obviously, and they go for days, weeks, without even kissing. There are days when Brad pretends he doesn’t exist, and days where Ray pretends Brad is nothing to him. There are times when Ray hangs out with Walt Hasser and Gabe Garza and Brad isn’t even a thought in his head. And there are days when Brad looks right through him to get to Fick, or Poke, or Kocher, because Ray’s just a kid, really. In the real world, Ray’s a kid and Brad’s a Sergeant and in the real world, the two of them can’t work.  
  
But that’s okay. It fucking hurts some, but anything that doesn’t hurt isn’t worth having, right? Sure, that’s one way of looking at it.  
  
They have their moments, though. Afternoons in Brad’s bed (or Brad’s couch, shower, kitchen table...), times when it’s just them and they don’t have to hide or pretend or throw up a front. Where Brad can just look at him grudgingly and say “Yeah, I guess you’re okay.” and Ray just has to grin and accept it, because he’s just Ray Person, the guy Brad Colbert kind of likes. Not Corporal Ray Person, the guy in Sergeant Colbert’s team.  
  
They have their moments, and Ray stores up each and every one, because he knows they’re not gonna last.  
  
They don’t last.  
  
~  
  
“We’re not doing this in Iraq.”  
  
Ray looks up at Brad. He’s in his uniform, and he’s staring straight forward, looking at a point to the left of and just above Ray’s head. His hat looks like it was aligned with a ruler.  
  
Ray sighs.  
  
“Fucking obviously, dude,” he says, kicking his feet against the the side of the humvee. “We’re not gonna do it in Kuwait, either. We don’t do it on base. We don’t do it any-fucking-where but in your house with all the blinds drawn and the fucking lights out.”  
  
Brad might have flinched a little, or it might have just been a shadow, the light changing, a figment of Ray’s imagination.  
  
“You know,” Brad says, and then doesn’t elaborate on what Ray should know, tightening his mouth into a closed, straight line.  
  
Ray can only sigh some more. He knows. Of _course_ he knows.  
  
“It’s okay. We’re okay.” He forces a grin, wonders if it looks as fake as it feels.  
  
Brad still isn’t looking at him anyway, so.  
  
“We’ll be okay,” he amends, and Brad nods, once.  
  
“Okay. Good,” he says, and about faces.  
  
For the first time, Ray lets his face fall.  
  
~  
  
War happens. It’s...war.  
  
Ray’s still a kid in love, somewhere, some part of him still exists that can be called that. But mostly Ray’s a kid at war, and it’s harder than it has a right to be, and just about exactly as hard as he expected.  
  
Brad’s with him. And that...that’s both harder than he’d hoped and still somehow, the easiest thing in the world.  
  
~  
  
“Get the fuck out of my hole, Brad.”  
  
Ray’s half asleep, watching the dim reflection of explosions in the sky, and Brad’s sitting on his legs.  
  
“Shut up,” Brad grumbles. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
“I can’t, there’s a psycho Viking motherfucker crushing my legs.” Ray’s not sure what’s happening. They’ve been in country for - weeks. He’s not sure how many, right at the moment, because he’s so tired that he can still see the explosions when his eyes are closed. But it’s been weeks, plural, he knows that, and this is the most Brad’s touched him, the most he’s _been touched._  
  
Brad isn’t acknowledging that anything’s strange, though. He’s real good at not acknowledging things, these days.  
  
“Suck it up,” he says, shifting and wiggling so he’s settled between Ray’s shins. He’s too big, it shouldn’t fit, but he does. Somehow.  
  
“Brad. What.” Ray doesn’t want to acknowledge this, either. He wants to go back to sleep. He wants to lean forward and kiss Brad. He wants to punch him right in the mouth and make him bleed. He wants them to stay where they are forever.  
  
“Go to sleep, Ray,” Brad repeats, softly. He clicks on his red penlight and starts looking at some papers, maps or orders, a skin mag for all Ray knows. He’s got his hand cupped around the light, but it’s okay, Ray’s slept through worse.  
  
“Okay,” he says, almost to himself. “Okay, I’m sleeping.”  
  
He sleeps.  
  
~  
  
“We’re not doing this in Iraq,” Ray says, and he’s tired and sore and Brad’s eyes are looking down at him from some impossible height. Brad twists his mouth.  
  
“I never meant...”  
  
“Oh Jesus Christ, Colbert,” Ray snaps, and rubs his eyes. “Do I have to do everything?”  
  
“You’re better at this than me!” Brad hisses, and it’s like the heavens have opened up and hell has frozen over and there’s a flotilla of pigs cruising past on fluffy pink wings. Ray grins.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
It’s Brad’s turn to run a hand over his face. “Ray. I never stopped. You know.”  
  
Ray’s grin goes a little soft around the edges. “Yeah, Brad. Yeah, I know.”  
  
~  
  
“So guess who’s got two thumbs and isn’t sucking your dick in a fuckhole abandoned building on the outskirts of Baghdad?”  
  
Brad has the gall to look amused.  
  
“Like I want your mouth anywhere near my dick,” he says, and he’s close, close enough that Ray can smell the pound cake on his breath, the lingering tang of gin.  
  
“Oh that’s hilarious, Brad. You _love_ my mouth. You should fucking pay me for the privilege of - _oh_ -”  
  
Brad shuts him up with two fingers shoved roughly past his lips, and Christ, _Christ_ , Ray is so up for this. It’s more insane than it’s ever been, but he’s _up_ for it.  
  
“I can’t stop thinking about this,” Brad says, which Ray knows is a lie. They’ve been fighting a _war_ , they’ve both had other things on their minds. And besides, Ray had been pretty sure it was over.  
  
He’ll go with it, though. The lie works.  
  
He closes his eyes and sucks on Brad’s fingers, moans just a little. Brad’s free hand is pressing down on his own dick, through his uniform, and Ray takes that as permission to do the same. It’s not - it’s not great or anything, it’s not sexy. The only point of contact between them is Brad’s fingers in Ray’s mouth, and they taste like shit, like dirt and gun oil and salt. But it’s something.  
  
It’s everything.  
  
It’s going to have to be enough.  
  
“We’ll do it,” Brad’s saying, his voice quiet and rough in Ray’s ear. “When we get back, okay, we’re gonna - this is what I want, I want you, _fuck_ you, fuck you for making me want this but I do, and I’m gonna have it.”  
  
Ray spits Brad’s fingers out. “Fuck _you,_ ” he says weakly. “Now? Seriously?”  
  
“Now.” Brad nods, and then he’s shoving Ray hard up against a wall. They’re alone, _private,_ which has been an abstract concept for however many months they’ve been here. Ray doesn’t know what’s going on, but there’s a small burn of hope in his chest. He wants to squash it, but he can’t.  
  
“You’re fucking insane,” he says bitterly, but grabs Brad’s wrist, squeezes it with a shaky hand. Brad nods.  
  
“Yeah, clearly. I wanna fuck you and all, so...”  
  
“You’ve _fucked_ me,” Ray says, but he’s hard and so is Brad, and they’re rutting against each other, pressed into the wall. “Brad, Brad.”  
  
“Ray,” Brad’s voice is soft, mocking. He gets a hand between them, and shit, it’s not gonna take much. “You’re such a little fucking asshole,” Brad whispers. “Why did you make me...”  
  
“Shut up, Brad, Jesus,” Ray says, eyes closed. He doesn’t want to hear this, he just wants to _have_ this. He’s gonna come. Brad’s gonna make him come for the first time in, oh, shit...  
  
“Why’d you make me love you,” Brad says in his ear, and he sounds pissed off, and Ray comes.  
  
Just like that.  
  
~  
  
They’ve been back for a couple weeks before they get it together.  
  
Brad’s been distant, but not in the same way he was in Iraq. It’s more that he’s uncertain, holding himself apart to hold himself together. And Ray thinks there’s a decent possibility that he dreamed everything that happened, so, well, no, that isn’t it. Ray’s a pussy. He doesn’t want to admit that it might be real, and he doesn’t want to admit that Brad might have been wrong.  
  
He wants Brad to come to him and say, “I love you, let’s do this thing.” He wants it laid out real clear, no ambiguity. He wants to stop feeling so young and unsure. He wants the war to never have happened, wants to be back in Brad’s bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon, with the golden sunlight making neon lines on their skin.  
  
“So, like.” They’re drinking beer together, at the dive bar down the road from Brad’s house. Poke’s there, and Kocher, and also Walt and Chaffin and Christopher. A few of the other guys, too, Doc playing darts over in the corner, Q-Tip striking out with a girl. And Brad, and Ray.  
  
“So, remember in Iraq.” Ray drinks his beer to wet his throat. He’s drunk enough to be saying this, sober enough for it to still mean something. “Remember what you said?”  
  
“I said a lot of things in Iraq, Ray,” Brad says blankly, looking over at Doc. Ray pokes him. He’s drunk enough for that, too.  
  
“Remember one particular thing you said,” he presses. “Remember that?”  
  
Brad turns to him. His cheeks are red and his eyes are bright. He’s trying to look cool, and he is not succeeding. Ray smiles.  
  
“I would be down for that. If the offer’s still on the table.”  
  
Brad scrunches up his face. “You’re drunk,” he says quietly. “Ray.”  
  
“Not that drunk,” Ray says, and cocks his head. “Take me back to your place. Hey, remember how you used to like, squeeze my wrists? I’m down for that too. Maybe you could tie me to your bed or hold me down or something. What have I gotta do, man? Maybe you could just spend all night fucking me. I’m so down for that. Maybe I love you too.”  
  
He probably is that drunk, but nothing is any less true. He wills Brad to believe that. Brad’s looking at him like he’s an alien.  
  
“Brad. Maybe I’ve always loved you. I don’t fucking know. Just take me home.”  
  
Brad stands up, and Ray watches him. He wants this more than he’s wanted anything in his life. Probably. He wants it pretty bad, anyway. He shouldn’t have had that last beer, or maybe the last three. He doesn’t know - just doesn't know where this is going.  
  
Brad licks his lips. He reaches out, and grabs Ray’s wrist, squeezes tight and then lets go.  
  
“Yeah,” he says, and he’s smiling, and Ray can’t help but smile back. “Okay.”


End file.
